


i'll be the salt for your wounds

by unreadable0



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Black Whale Arc, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Humor, Enemies to Lovers, Kuroro is Bad at Feelings, Love Curse, M/M, Nen as a Plot Device, Pining, Romantic Introspection, Unrequited Love, liberal use of curse words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23579611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unreadable0/pseuds/unreadable0
Summary: Kuroro wants to take him, breathe him in. He wants to burrow under his skin and live at his lips, tucked away behind his teeth. He wants and wants and needs.Fuck. The damned nen-exorcist may have had a point.Kurapika’s eyes flicker towards him, then, and the dull burning in Kuroro’s gut flares. The crease between Kurapika’s eyebrows deepens, but that’s the only sign that he recognizes Kuroro at all before he turns away from him completely.“Be still, my heart,” Kuroro murmurs sourly to himself and yet he cannot look away.(In which Kuroro must endure the side-effects of his nen exorcism. Alternatively, Kuroro is forced to have feelings and absolutely cannot handle it.)
Relationships: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Kurapika
Comments: 96
Kudos: 478





	1. tear you open from the inside

“There may be some side effects.” 

In an instant, Kuroro’s eyes, so empty and hollow, flick to his own. Abengane has his full attention, now, and it’s so stifling that his breath catches in his throat. The Spider more scrutinizes him than looks at him, his stare cold as an unwavering blade pressed against his throat. 

The nen-exorcist shifts uncomfortably, fingers steepled under his chin. He must choose his next words carefully. His coin purse will be fat should he pull this off, but Abengane is well aware that it is only his value to the other man that keeps those manicured hands from plunging into his chest. 

“Side effects?” Kuroro echoes. Abengane’s mouth twitches. 

“The nen binding you is potent.” Abengane gestures to Kuroro’s chest as he continues. “The hatred of its caster… it is complex, twisted. That hatred has braided itself into your aura, festering as it locks your nen away. To uproot something so deep is not an easy task. It is painful, excruciatingly so, and it will leave behind something that you may consider worse.”

Kuroro’s patience is wearing thin, that much he can tell. “Don’t mince your words. What is it that you need to do?” 

“I have told you how my nen works,” Abengane says, faltering. “I can take a curse away, but it will always manifest into something different. A bomb becomes a primordial beast, for example. Nen cannot be destroyed, only changed.”

“I see. So I, too, will have to bear a totem like yours? Some sort of afflicted creature that will share my burden?” 

“Not exactly. I cannot remove the hatred staining your nen, but I can alter it. I can neutralize it, but the process will naturally leave something behind in its stead. One evil for another, you could say.”

Kuroro’s tongue darts past his lips. “Neutralize how?”

Abengane draws a loose jenny that he has in his pocket for emphasis. “Hate and love,” he explains, tossing up the money, “are two sides of the same coin. Connected closely enough for one to be disguised as the other, but different enough that love can neutralize the effects of hate and vice versa.” Glancing back up at his client, Abengane tries his best not to waver underneath the weight of Lucilfer’s skepticism. “Hear me when I say that you will still bear his mark, with my intervention or not.”

“Love,” the Spider repeats, nonplussed. To his surprise, Kuroro’s lips curl upwards. “How poetic,” he remarks. “So I am to wander after the man who wishes to kill me like some love-struck dog? Is that how this will work?”

“I don’t think so,” the nen-exorcist says. “I don’t have much experience lifting nen of this nature, but from what I have learned, the effects are subtler than you think but far more potent that you would ever want.”

“I see,” Kuroro replies, and Abengane highly doubts that he does. “I’m willing to accept the consequences,” he declares, unflinching. Abengane twists his hands in his lap. 

“This is… not a complication for you? To harbor affections for the very person that has rendered you to this state?”

Kuroro just smiles, teeth sharp. “Oh, it makes no matter.” There’s a strange glint in the man’s gaze and Abengane realizes for the first time just how unhinged he is. “A simple fix for this irritable side effect” —he waves his hand dismissively— “is to kill the one responsible. After all, that is how the curse is removed entirely, correct?”

Abengane swallows. “Yes.”

“Then it is no problem,” Kuroro reiterates, leaning forward on his haunches. “200,000 jenny is the payment that we agreed on, yes?”

 _Leaving this encounter unscathed is payment enough_ , Abengane thinks to himself, but he nods anyway. Kuroro grins, wolfish. 

“Excellent. Let’s get started now, shall we?”

* * *

The air is heavy with incense and smoke, the fire crackling in front of him so hot that Kuroro feels that he is being boiled alive without the protection of his nen. But then, with a muttered incantation, the chain around his heart tightens and spasms before falling away entirely. Distantly, Kuroro hears screaming and then he realizes that it’s his own, the sound hoarse and ragged as a wave of agony crests and breaks around him. 

For several moments, he feels as if he’s floating, suspended in nothingness as his mind registers nothing but the whited peaks of pain pinpricking across his skin. Kuroro reflects that maybe this is what it feels like to be unmade, to be torn to the foundations only to be painstakingly built back up, piece by piece, fibre by fibre. He turns this idea over in his head as he screams himself hoarse. 

Then, just as the torture reaches its crescendo, it abruptly ceases and Kuroro feels _free,_ for the first time in months. He can feel his aura, licking up around him, soothing the flames coursing through his veins. 

But of course, this small mercy lasts for only a second before something thick and crushing slinks down Kuroro’s throat and down the column of his spine, making a home at his ribs. 

_And equal exchange,_ Abengane had said. 

Kuroro’s mouth tastes like sugar and that strange creature nestling in his chest shifts, discontented. He’s missing something—something fundamental, something groundbreaking, and he feels like he’s slowly wasting away because of it. 

Sweat falls into Kuroro’s eyes—his heart is beating too fast, too heavy, to be normal. 

“What do you feel?” Abengane asks, more out of fear than actual concern. Kuroro straightens, chest heaving. 

“Nothing at all,” he says calmly, and by god that’s the biggest fucking lie he’s ever told with how heavy he feels, like the weight of the world has been hung at his collar and he can do nothing but bear it. “Nothing at all,” he repeats, mostly for himself. He gets to his feet, pretending the trembling in his limbs is from the phantom pain and nothing else. 

_Love_ —the drink of idiots and the food of dreamers. God, he hates it. 

If this is what love is supposed to feel like, Kuroro cannot wait until the chain-user is dead at his feet and he is free from it all.

* * *

Kuroro is able to ignore the quiet ache in his chest after the first few weeks. It’s nothing too serious. After a few drinks, he can easily pretend that the emptiness is something else. A puzzling ailment that makes his breathing stutter and haunts his nightmares with blond hair and ghostly, carmine-colored eyes. 

Of course, he means to hunt down the Kurta and kill him once and for all as soon as possible, but his debt to Hisoka demands to be paid, and after that, the death of his comrades cannot be ignored. Fights must be finished and burials must be attended to; Kuroro tells himself that he _simply does not have the time._

All the while, he tries not to dwell too much on the nen-exorcist’s warning. _‘Love is much like hate in the way that it festers. Left unchecked, it will consume you.’_

Kuroro hopes that the other man was just being dramatic. _Abengane speaks in riddles and poems,_ he reassures himself time and time again, _his words are nothing more than sentimental ramblings_. Besides, he feels completely fine. The sinking hollowness that he feels has not grown more cavernous. The crushing weight on his lungs is uncomfortable but not unbearable. 

Of course, everything is completely thrown into disorder once he boards the Black Whale. All that Kuroro had wanted was a one-way ticket away from the ghosts of his friends, a place for him to lick his wounds, and maybe an opportunity to avenge his fallen members with the murder of a certain clown. 

Certainly, he means to drown his sorrows with blood and pretty treasures to add to his collection, but _hell_ , when Kuroro had prayed for a distraction he hadn’t meant _this._

He sees Kurapika for the first time in a year surrounded by painted princes and fine food in the banquet hall of the uppermost deck. The Kurta’s displeasure is clear—he hates it here, and Kuroro can easily discern why. Everything around them is a mockery of humanity. Niceties are exchanged and flattery is slathered on thick over bloodlust and hatred. Men and women compliment each other’s garments with their hands sunk deep in the other’s innards. Wealth and luxuries are paraded around while thousands of others starve in the lower decks. For Kurapika, the poor, reluctant avenger with a heart of gold, Kuroro can only assume that this is hell. 

But the blond’s discomfort only makes him more enticing. 

He sticks out like a sore thumb, all pale skin and solemn eyes. There’s not a hint of that fiery passion that Kuroro remembers from Yorknew, just two crescent bruises under his eyes that speak of exhaustion and sleepless nights. Still, that _thing_ that has been growing in his chest stretches and quiets its raging for the first time in ages at the sight of him. 

Kuroro wants to take him, breathe him in. He wants to burrow under his skin and live at his lips, tucked away behind his teeth. He wants and wants and _needs._

Fuck. The damned nen-exorcist may have had a point. 

Kurapika’s eyes flicker towards him, then, and the dull burning in Kuroro’s gut flares. The crease between Kurapika’s eyebrows deepens, but that’s the only sign that he recognizes Kuroro at all when he turns away from him completely.

“Be still, my heart,” Kuroro murmurs sourly to himself and yet he cannot look away. 

Kuroro can do nothing but watch as the blond ducks down to whisper something to the queen before crossing the distance between them with sure strides. Kurapika’s expression is unreadable and Kuroro nearly goes cross-eyed as he leans in close, one hand sliding up the Spider’s upper arm. The Kurta disguises their exchange as something familiar, natural, but there is no mistaking the raw violence in his voice as he speaks directly into his ear. 

“Hallway. _Now_.” Despite the ice in his command, Kurapika’s breath is warm against his skin and Kuroro is a fool for being tempted by it. Still, he has enough sense in him to let the other man guide him out of the banquet hall. It’s not until they’re a suitable distance away from the crowds that Kurapika’s polite stiffness melts away. Kuroro barely has time to marvel at how the man’s strides lengthen, how the tension in his shoulders eases, before Kurapika has him pressed against the wall, fingers wrapped tight around his throat. Aura, thick and intense, oozes from Kurapika’s being and Kuroro can’t stop the smile that slides across his face. 

It’s been a while since he’s felt this. The thrill of the chase. Power has always been so intoxicating to him and with Kurapika it is no different. Perhaps it’s that damned nen coating his heart that makes him want to dig his fingers into the other’s hair, to taste that pale sliver of skin between the blond’s jaw and throat, but then again, maybe it’s not. Either way, Kurapika’s fate will also be no different from his previous conquests. He’ll end up in his bed or dead. Or possibly both, if Kuroro is being honest. 

Kurapika shatters his musings by slamming his head into the undoubtedly expensive wallpaper. Kuroro blinks down at him, pretending not to notice how his head throbs. 

“What are you doing here?” Kurapika snaps. Kuroro notes that he doesn’t sound angry, not quite. Instead, there is something like desperation in his voice. But what for? 

“I could ask the same of you,” he replies, masking the heat he feels with cool indifference. The hand on his throat tightens in warning, becoming five white-hot points of pain that will surely bruise later. Kuroro tries to focus on it—on anything else, really, that isn’t Kurapika pressed up close against him. The man’s cologne—warmth and musk and something spicy—hangs in the air between them and Kuroro wants to wrap himself up in it. _Disgusting._

“I don’t mean any harm for you,” Kuroro tries again. His eyes shift to the young queen and her daughter in the other room. “Or for your charges, either.” 

“You are insane if you think that I’d trust a word that you say,” the Kurta spits and yet his grip loosens a fraction anyway. “But it doesn’t matter. Cause any chaos on this damned ship and I will make sure that any _mercy_ that I mistakenly granted you in Yorknew never happens again.”

The Spider slips out of Kurapika’s grasp easily, rounding in on him. “Your nen no longer has a hold over me” — _lies_ — “I would like to see you try.” If Kurapika is at all surprised by his revelation, he doesn’t show it. He flexes his fingers, the phantom sound of chains rattling in Kuroro’s ears. 

“There are other ways to break you,” Kurapika tells him coldly. Despite himself, Kuroro flinches. The faces of his fallen comrades flicker unsummoned across his memory.

“Right,” he says softly. “Speaking of which…” 

Kurapika’s temper is quick to provoke. “Spit it out.”

Kuroro had had plans booking a cabin on the Black Whale. There’s a spot in his Skill Hunter with Hisoka’s name on it and it would be a shame for it to go to waste. But now, with Kurapika so conveniently in his grasp, Kuroro makes an amendment to his plot. He imagines Kurapika at his side as he rips another scream from Hisoka’s lips from where he is bound by his own beloved bungee gum and feasted upon by his indoor fish. He imagines tracing the graceful bend of Kurapika’s neck with his tongue before he wraps his hands around it and _snaps._

 _Yes,_ Kuroro thinks to himself, _I want that._

“I need your help.” Kuroro feels a silly sort of satisfaction at the shock and then horror that crashes over the Kurta’s expression. For all his bravado and bite, Kurapika is remarkably easy to read. He’s an open book, stained by tragedy and smoldering with hatred and anger and Kuroro wants to tear him apart. 

Kurapika shoves him back onto the wall. The man’s lithe frame practically trembles with his barely-restrained fury. “And you assume that I would help you, Lucilfer?” He spits out his name like it’s a curse, which by all means, it is. 

Kuroro just stares down at him, a hint of amusement playing on his features. “Of course.”

Lust pools deep in his gut as Kurapika sneers at him, the hand on Kuroro’s chest pressing painful into his lungs. “You wouldn’t want anything, say, _calamitous_ to happen that would throw the entire Succession War into chaos, would you?” Kuroro asks, deceptively innocent. Kurapika sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“I’d kill you.” 

Kuroro just laughs, flipping their positions so that he crowds Kurapika close to him, not even bothering to keep up the pretense of personal space. “Again, I would like to see you try.” 

The Kurta strains in his hold, all fire and frustration and Kuroro _loves it._ He relishes how Kurapika’s pulse beats heavy at his touch, how his eyes fight back red beneath his contacts. God, Kuroro would give anything to feel those lips against his own, to feel Kurapika’s breath quicken and falter as he explores the cavern of his throat, the jut of his collarbone. 

Suddenly, Kurapika goes still. “You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. Kuroro keeps his words level even as his heart staccatos in the confines of his ribs. 

“Aren’t you?” 

Kurapika doesn’t take the bait. The other man sets his jaw, eyes calculating.

“What do you want,” Kurapika grounds out, too bitter to be a question. 

Riotous rage sours Kuroro’s tongue, but he swallows it back. Composure has always been his strength and he is loath to lose it at the mere mention of the man’s name. “Hisoka.”

Kurapika tenses underneath him. Kuroro guesses that the clown’s presence on the ship is news to him. “He’s not in the upper decks, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know that.” _Well, I know that_ now. Kurapika rolls his eyes as if he doesn’t believe him. 

“What do you want from him?” 

Kuroro gives in to the urge to straighten the blond’s collar, skimming his fingers against the smooth skin of his neck. For some reason, Kurapika allows it. Possibly because he is well aware of Kuroro’s knife poking into his ribs. “His head,” he says slowly, savoring the feel of the words on his tongue, “on a silver platter, if I’m feeling dramatic.”

Kurapika’s expression tightens. “You want him dead.”

Kuroro hums. “Feeling protective, are we?” The damned nen around his heart throbs painfully at the thought. Jealousy, perhaps? Kuroro stuffs the minute sensation away for later inspection. 

The other man grunts derisively. “He can rot in hell for all I care.” _With you,_ goes unspoken, but Kuroro hears it nonetheless. 

“Good. We’re on the same page, for once.”

Kurapika’s mouth pinches into a scowl. “Insinuate that again and I’ll rip your tongue out, Lucilfer.”

The Spider breezes past his hostility. “Of course, dear.”

A muscle twitches between Kurapika’s eyes. “Indulge me this,” he says and Kuroro bites back the rather inappropriate response at his lips. “What did he do to you to merit you enlisting me, of all people, to your aid?”

He’s looking for weaknesses, Kuroro realizes. “Let’s just say that Morrow now has you beat for the number of Spider legs he has brutally snapped off.” Kuroro can practically _see_ the gears turning in Kurapika’s head as he pieces together the implications. 

“Oh,” Kurapika manages, quiet and breathy enough to make Kuroro’s chest tighten. And then the Kurta laughs. 

They say that hearing the laugh of the person you love can make your heart stop, that it can turn your world over and bring you to your knees with its beauty. Kuroro feels none of this. The sound coming from Kurapika’s throat is something deformed and ugly; it’s a thinly-veiled mockery. It’s shattered glass against his ears, sharp enough to draw blood. If Kuroro were a weaker man, he would have silenced Kurapika already, squeezed that noise from his lips until the man could loose it no longer. 

Instead, he just waits patiently for the other’s fit to subside. “Are you done?”

“I will never be,” Kurapika answers, but still he ceases. Kuroro takes the opportunity to continue. 

“Hisoka has always had a fascination with you” — _I guess we now share that_ , Kuroro thinks to himself— “and if he were to approach anyone aboard this boat, it’s you.” Kurapika’s eyes flash. 

“You want me as bait.”

Kuroro hums, leaning in. This close, he can see the golden glint of Kurapika’s eyelashes and the light dusting of freckles on his nose, a galaxy of stars exploding on his skin.“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, my dear.”

Disgust flashes in Kurapika’s gaze. “What do I get in return?” 

Kuroro wants to run a hand down the man’s cheek but he doesn’t want to push it. Not when he has him so close to his side. “The eyes.”

At once, the Kurta stiffens in his hold and Kuroro knows that he has him. 

“I know the Fourth Prince has them. I can get them for you, no spilled blood needed.” It would be a difficult task, and quite frankly, very messy, but it’s overall a small price to pay to gain the Kurta’s allegiance, if only temporarily. 

“Bloodless? I doubt it,” Kurapika snaps. 

“Well, no blood spilt on _your_ hands,” Kuroro revises. 

“What’s to stop me from getting them myself, your help be damned?” Kurapika asks. 

“What’s to stop me from stealing them first and throwing them into the ocean?” Kuroro counters. Kurapika curses, shoving the Spider back. Kuroro doesn’t so much as flinch, choosing to clutch the blond tighter, forcing him to decide. 

There’s an internal battle raging in Kurapika’s thoughts and Kuroro watches it with fascination. A film reel of emotions falls over the man’s features, each one more obvious as the next. Truly, Kurapika is a rare find. Like a work of art, slathered with layers of thick, dark paint to hide the raw red that bleeds into the canvas underneath, that soils the fine wood of its frame. A corrupted masterpiece, to be stolen and locked away in his collection forever. 

_Ugh._

God, this nen curse has made him nothing short of sickening. Kuroro is arrogant enough to consider himself a poet, but ballads of romance and softness have never been his taste. The fact that he wants to press his words into Kurapika’s skin, to burn his verses into grooves of Kurapika’s bones, makes him want to vomit. 

Realistically, Kuroro could kill him right here, right now, and be rid of it all. But a dark, curious side of him, one that has not a hint of self-preservation nor logic, hisses at him to push further. The need to break Kurapika down, to find out what makes the blond tick, is a temptation that he cannot resist. 

Finally, after a few minutes of stewing in silence, Kurapika closes his eyes and saves Kuroro from his ruminations. “What do I need to do?”

Kuroro smiles. “Contact him. Get all the information that you can out of him. His whereabouts, his plans, his allies… those sorts of things.”

“And why would he trust me with any of that?”

The Spider shrugs. “I’m willing to wager that his ego will make him sloppy. He’s probably willing to spill some details to a friendly ear.”

“I’d hardly call the relationship we share ‘friendly’,” Kurapika retorts. Kuroro huffs. 

“It’s more than enough for him. He’ll be operating under the assumption that you’re still out to kill me” — Kurapika tilts his head, as if to say ‘ _fair assumption’_ — “so hopefully he’ll try to recruit you to his demonic little tirade.” The other man purses his lips, looking thoughtful. 

“Perhaps I should take him up on his hypothetical offer, then,” he says. Kuroro aura lashes out traitorously, crackling, even as his expression remains unbothered. 

“Of the two of us, who is the more stable, reliable one?” If he cannot win Kurapika over with his promises, then he will win him over with rationale. 

There’s no hesitation before Kurapika replies. “Hard to say.” Irritation tugs Kuroro’s lips. 

“Alright, then. Who’s more predictable?” 

The corner of Kurapika’s mouth pulls downward. Kuroro’s triumphant smile melts off of his face when the other man remarks, “So you really _do_ need my help.” Kuroro kicks himself for showing his cards so plainly like that. The blond’s more manipulative than he gives him credit for.

 _Not so much_ need _but_ want. Kuroro mentally corrects him, but he holds his tongue. 

Kurapika takes his silence and sighs. “And if I do all of those things, then what? I go on my merry way to drop the information at your feet and you fork over the eyes? Is that how this is going to work?”

The Spider considers his question for a moment. “How would you like this to work?” Hell, he’s feeling a bit generous. 

“The less I see of you, the better.” Kurapika’s answer is quick and blunt. Kuroro refuses to admit for even a second that it hurts. 

“Very well,” he lies smoothly. _I suppose I’ll be doing a lot of watching from afar, then._ “Shall we do this by phone, then?” His tone is trivial, as if they’re two teenagers negotiating the terms of a school project instead of a murder.

“No,” Kurapika says, too quickly.

 _Oh._ Kurapika sounds almost embarrassed. How adorable. It’s not hard to imagine that Kurapika, a child raised in the middle of the woods absent of so much as a wink of electricity, will never be comfortable using technology. 

“I’ll meet you. Alone. I don’t need any of your subordinates running amuck. I’ll find you when I have something, but if I see you anytime outside of that rest assured that a peaceful conversation is off the table,” the man tells him brusquely. Kuroro cocks his head to one side. 

“As you wish.” Kurapika’s eye twitches at his doting tone. “I’ll bring you the eyes once Hisoka is dead.”

“One more condition,” the Hunter ventures, although he leaves no room for argument. 

Displeasure arches one of Kuroro’s brows. “Don’t go mistaking my compliance as generosity, Kurapika.”

“If you want my assistance then you’ll return the favor,” Kurapika insists. “As much as I loathe you, Lucilfer, which I certainly do, your… _capabilities_ could be useful to my charges.”

“Be direct, dear,” Kuroro chides. “Beating around the bush doesn’t suit you.” A scowl returns to the other man’s expression and Kuroro is reminded just how young Kurapika is. 

“Should the need arise, I’m sure my charges would appreciate your help.” Kurapika is careful to leave his feelings out of the equation, but Kuroro doesn’t take it to heart. 

“I didn’t think you cared,” Kuroro marvels, because _my,_ Kurapika presents him with such an interesting puzzle. And a new slew of weaknesses, should Kuroro want to exploit them. 

“Not all of us are emotionless psychopaths like you,” Kurapika snipes. Kuroro laughs. 

“I accept your terms,” the Phantom Troupe leader says. “Do you accept mine?”

For a heartbeat, Kurapika looks as if he might refuse, but then he just nods, regret heavy in his eyes. Satisfied, Kuroro draws away, straightening his tie where Kurapika had yanked viciously at it earlier. 

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” Kurapika blurts, emboldened by Kuroro’s distance. “Something else you want.”

Kuroro’s eyes flit back to his. “What makes you say that?”

Kurapika licks his lips. Kuroro bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something stupid. “You’ve been distracted this entire time. I may not be able to read you as well as you like to think you read me, but I would like to know if my time is being wasted.” His sardonic tone should hurt Kuroro’s pride, but instead it does the opposite. “Now what else do you want from me?”

“You’re correct,” Kuroro admits easily, because that is the only truth that he can afford the other man at the moment. “But whatever else I want from you is _none of your damned business._ ”

Kurapika’s face lights up with curiosity at his defensiveness. Kuroro feels terribly exposed and he tries not to feel too trapped by the other’s searching stare. He needs to get away from the Kurta, and soon. Not because Kuroro needs to retreat, but because Kurapika makes him distracted in the worst ways possible. Kuroro has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve—with Kurapika, he’s off-kilter enough to slip up here and then. 

As he turns to leave, Kurapika calls out to him. His voice is quiet, but nevertheless, some part of Kuroro freezes when he hears it. 

“One more thing: don’t bother lying to me, Lucilfer. I know my nen and I know”—Kurapika’s tone is fierce, condemning, and _god_ Kuroro wants to kiss him— “I know that it still marks you.”

Something buzzes at the back of Kuroro’s mind. Fear, maybe? Too dulled for him to process. Kuroro arranges his mouth into a shitty facsimile of a smile. “So it does.”

Kurapika scoffs. “Don’t give me that. I don’t know how you managed to lift my restrictions, but that changes nothing. If I cannot take your life, I will take everything else. Once this is all over, I will see to it.” Kuroro shouldn’t feel even more enamored than he already is at the vehemence in Kurapika’s ultimatum, and yet he does. He meets the other’s gaze, matches the blond’s intensity with his own, and his malfunctioning heart thumps ridiculously hard in his ears.

“Well, two can play at that game, Kurapika.”

Without another word, the Hunter pushes past him and returns to the banquet. Kuroro burns watching him go. The nen curled around his heart writhes and twists deep within him, a fatal reminder of the road that lies ahead of him. 

It should be simple. He’ll go along with his foolish desire to see Kurapika again. He’ll use him for information and for entertainment and once Hisoka is dead he will make sure that Kurapika follows. But at the thought of killing him, of sliding his knife across Kurapika’s vulnerable neck, the nen in Kuroro’s chest riots, raging against his bones. 

_Well, shit._ This is going to be harder than he thought. 


	2. taste the blood on your lips, on mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kuroro discovers a rather nasty side-effect of the nen-curse.

It’s mid-morning, Kuroro notes to himself as he watches honeyed slats of light slide over his lover’s skin. Probably ten o’clock, or later. Late enough that they should both be getting up and doing something. He can’t be bothered to remember why, but Kuroro’s  _ sure  _ that there’s something pressingly urgent that he must do at the moment. But, out of sight, out of mind. So he contents himself with watching the other man sleep for just a few more moments, something warm settling in his chest as he follows the lazy rise and fall of the other’s breathing. Nevertheless, the vague disquiet rolling underneath his skin refuses to settle. Kuroro reaches forward to nudge his partner awake. 

The man cracks open one grey eye, looking faintly irritated. 

For some reason, Kuroro had expected a reaction far worse—yelling, screaming, maybe a good kick or two. He’s not sure why—something about his head is too foggy to really think much outside of the man beside him—but he’s still decently surprised when the blond doesn’t recoil in disgust at his touch. Instead, he shuffles closer, letting out a hum.

_ This isn’t real,  _ passes through Kuroro’s thoughts, silvery and quick, but then it’s gone as the other man opens both eyes blearily and props himself up on one elbow. 

“What?” his lover asks, sounding more awake. 

But Kuroro can’t stop staring. He can’t stop staring at the wonder that is Kurapika’s unburdened brow, that is that quiet, almost secretive smile that Kuroro can’t help but wonder is just for him. There’s a sharp, distinct thought that  _ he doesn’t deserve this, has never deserved this, and never  _ will  _ deserve this,  _ but Kuroro pushes it away in favor of shifting closer. One hand comes up, stalling on the slippery satin of the sheets, an aborted attempt at bridging the distance between them. 

_ Fuck.  _ All at once, Kurapika is too far away and yet not far enough. A part of Kuroro, the downtrodden, flattened bit of good that has left, tells him that he should tear away, that he should run from this paradise because it’s not one that he’s earned. That squandered goodness reminds Kuroro that he has ruined the other man enough already, that there is nothing left for him to have in Kurapika that he has not stolen away already. 

But, the man’s scent of musk and sun and cardamom hangs on sheets. It slithers its way into Kuroro’s lungs and he knows that there’s no fighting this. His arm finds Kurapika’s waist, pulling his frame to his own. Kurapika just glances up at him, eyes searching. The Kurta raises his hand and Kuroro almost flinches, anticipating the violence that will surely come. But Kurapika just smooths out the crease between his eyebrows, expression open and tender. 

“Stop thinking so much,” Kurapika murmurs, voice raspy with sleep and something fond, before leaning in to kiss him. 

The man’s lips are soft against his own, deft fingers tracing patterns out of patchwork of scars that ribbon his skin. His lover’s heart beats steady under his hand and Kuroro wants to push forward, wants to upset the careful balance that the other man has set. 

But then Kurapika cups his cheek, gentle, gentle. Kuroro pauses. He runs a hand along the column of Kurapika’s throat, not to close around it and  _ squeeze _ , but to feel—to feel the delicate flutter of life coursing through his veins. Something inside of him quakes and trembles as Kurapika makes a pleased sound against his lips, tongue swiping against his own. It’s all so good. Too good, perhaps. 

Much too good. 

The Kurta’s touch is cotton-swathed and painfully sweet as it skims over his face and that’s how Kuroro knows that it’s not real.

It’s not real, none of it is. The man trailing light kisses down his jaw is nothing but an empty figment of his fucking imagination. Kuroro’s edges are too jagged, too sharp, to be shoved into a domestic life such as this. The mundaneness of it all should make him ill, really. This fantasy should be a suffocating nightmare because Kuroro has sworn off things as messy and unfulfilling as sentiment. But it’s not. 

And it’s sick. It’s fucking sick little fancy that his brain is made up for him, because Kuroro wants this. He wants Kurapika, clothed in soft things and warm curled against him. He wants it so much that something inside of him  _ aches.  _

Kurapika shifts against him, hair tickling the bottom of Kuroro’s chin. On instinct, the Spider reaches up and smooths down the man’s golden locks, the gesture so painfully familiar and intimate it’s choking. And yet it does not compare to what happens next. 

Kurapika nuzzles into his touch and then… then a  _ laugh  _ bubbles up from Kurapika’s lips, the sound light and clear and happy. It’s not that twisted, poisonous thing that Kuroro remembers that makes him want to shudder away. Rather, the air in Kuroro’s lungs seems to sweeten at the sound and his hand strokes through Kurapika’s hair, again and again, bidding the man to  _ make that sound again.  _

And he does. Kurapika laughs again, the sound soft and muffled against the skin of Kuroro’s neck and  _ perfect. _

_ Yes _ , Kuroro decides,  _ this most certainly is  _ not  _ real.  _

But, 

he wants it anyway. 

He longs to press kisses to that scarless bend of Kurapika’s throat, to shower him with jewels and shiny little things, to wrap him up in fine silks and then strip him gloriously bare for  _ him  _ and him alone. 

And god, it hurts. It’s an incessant hammering in his ribcage, an ice pick of pain tapping at the soft weakness of his heart, begging to be acknowledged. The phantom pain sinks deeper into the chasm of his chest.

_ Fuck.  _ It’s getting worse. 

His chest feels impossibly tight and suddenly Kuroro can’t breathe. Kurapika, the bed, the pleasant morning sun, all fade away and Kuroro is alone in the void. 

The air smells of iron blood and ozone—the scent of powerful nen. 

Fuck. His heart lurches, pulled by some invisible force—

—it’s going to rip out of his chest, surely—

Something heavy falls against him, suffocating. Kuroro claws blindly at his throat— _ I need to fucking breathe— _

Pain fireworks behind his eyes, bright bits of scarlet and violet sparking to the frantic rhythm of his heart.

_ Am I going to die? _

—and then he’s awake. 

Kuroro surges upward, chest heaving. Sweat streaks down his collarbones despite the frigid dampness of his cabin. He pushes his hands through his hair, grasping and pulling at it as if to ground himself. 

“What. The  _ fuck, _ ” Kuroro hisses between breaths. 

And his damn chest still hurts. Terribly.  _ Shit, _ Kuroro thinks he knows why. 

Because what else could it be, with a curse as cliche as this? His heart thunders painfully in his chest like a call for help—which by god it is. 

“You fucker,” he curses, scrambling out of the tangle of sheets and tugging on whatever clothes he can find. He’s still angrily stomping on his rather expensive shoes when he exits his cabin. “You really couldn’t have waited to stir up shit until  _ after  _ 3 am, could you?” Still, he takes out his Skill Hunter and flips to the appropriate page. 

Haste makes waste, after all. Especially if the royal bastard that you’re bound to is about to get himself killed.

* * *

The second Kuroro pops into existence inside of the Thirteenth Prince’s chambers, he knows that he should have just stayed in his cabin and waited it out, chest pain be damned. He has not a clue what Kurapika has done to bring upon the wrath of the upper-ranking princes, but the small army of bodyguards all packed in the room is evidence enough that it had seriously pissed them off. 

The flurry of gunfire stops as all the bodyguards turn their attention to the newcomer, all looking quite unhappy with the interruption. A strangled noise sounds from the corner of the room and that’s when Kuroro sees Kurapika, pressed against the wall with the Queen and her wailing daughter shielded behind him. The Kurta’s stance—wide-footed, knees-slightly bent, arms spread wide—is protective at the expense of offensiveness. The pain in Kuroro’s heart fizzles away. 

_ Beautiful,  _ Kuroro’s love-addled brain helpfully supplies. He catches sight of the sheen of perspiration glimmering on the man’s forehead, the pretty flush of his cheeks as he swings his chains in a deadly arc, taking advantage of the distraction and disarming one of his assailants. 

_ Weak,  _ he corrects himself. 

_ Oh, darling,  _ Kuroro thinks to himself,  _ how do you expect to fight like that?  _ Still, something warms deep in his chest at Kurapika’s clear devotion to his charges. Of course, jealousy follows, fleeting but stunning all the same, because the Queen is a very pretty woman and the way that she is looking at Kurapika is the same way a priestess would her patron god, but Kuroro shoves the feeling away as soon as it surfaces. Horribly inconvenient all these emotions are. 

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the hired soldiers barks, clearly not the mood to let Kuroro moon over Kurapika for much longer. He’s got an assasination to carry out, after all. 

“Now,” Kuroro says brusquely, stepping forward, “you’re quite rude.” Nen sizzles at his skin, so strong that it buzzes against the perimeter of his thoughts—just as Kuroro likes it. The same soldier yells at him to get back but he just waves him off. One of the armed goons fires, a nervous tic, and then all things go to shit. 

Bullets glance off of Kuroro’s skin, burrowing into the wallpaper behind him and cracking the expensive tile at his feet, and  _ no,  _ he can’t have that. He understands the value of finer things, and the ten-thousand jenny flooring absolutely doesn’t deserve to be so brutally disrespected. 

With a pointed flip of a page, the ghostly grey forms of his lovely fish materialize in the air, tails curling in excitement at the promise of food. 

“Kurapika,” he calls over the din as his nen swirls around the mass of bodyguards, tearing into their flesh, “be a dear and cover your charge’s eyes. I doubt her delicate sensibilities will be able to stomach what I am about to do.”  _ Well, what I am  _ currently  _ doing.  _ From the corner of his view, he sees Kurapika block the Queen’s view, grimacing. Satisfied, Kuroro steps back, content to watch as he lets his pets run amuck. 

There’s a good few minutes of screaming and the wet sounds of teeth tearing at flesh before Kuroro decides to take mercy and calls his nen back. The bodyguards, or what is left of them, die as soon as he closes his book. 

He nudges one of the masses of entrails with his shoe.  _ Hm.  _ Maybe he overdid it a little bit. From the corner of the room, Kuroro can hear Kurapika speaking to his charges in hushed tones, trying to calm them down. To Kuroro’s surprise, the infant’s pitiful cries cease as Kurapika takes her from her mother’s shock-stilled arms. The Kurta rocks the little prince in his arms, looking softer than Kuroro’s even seen him look before. After a few moments of quietly comforting both the babe and her mother, Kurapika sets the infant back into the Queen’s arms and whirls around to face him. 

“ _ You, _ ” Kurapika spits. 

Kuroro tilts his head, smiling. “Come now, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Excuse me,” the Queen— _ Oito _ , if Kuroro remembers correctly—cuts in from behind Kurapika, “but who are you?” Her tone is kind but has an undercurrent of steel to it, as if she is used to being obeyed and has the gumption to boot.

The Spider laughs. “Well, since you asked so nicely,  _ your highness _ ” —his tone isn’t quite mocking, but it’s close— “my name is Chrollo.”

A flicker of recognition flashes through the woman’s eyes. Kuroro’s grin widens.  _ Chrollo _ —the simplified, colloquial nickname that he picked up in childhood. It’s a name stolen from a famous book of fairytales— _ Chrollo, the king of thieves _ —and all the children of Ryuseigai cling to it, masquerading under the moniker as they play make-believe of pirates and riches and murder. 

_ Well.  _ Far has this woman come, from the grimy and shit-caked streets of Meteor City to the gilded halls of the Kakin Palace.  _ Interesting.  _

Oito steps closer to him in her curiosity but Kurapika holds her back with a gentle hand on her arm. “Careful, your highness. The man is quite dangerous.”

Kuroro raises his eyebrows at the thirty-odd bodies littering the floor as if to say ‘ _ no shit _ .’ Kurapika bristles. 

“What are you doing here?” the Kurta asks, the manufactured calm in his voice quavering. 

Kuroro’s heart seizes in remembrance. “I happened to be wandering the upper decks when I heard the…  _ commotion  _ and decided to investigate.”

Kurapika’s eyes narrow at his flimsy excuse. “I thought I told you that the upper decks have nothing of use to you,” he reminds him. Kuroro shrugs, feigning nonchalance. 

“You never know just  _ who  _ can be causing trouble of this magnitude nowadays, can you?” he adds. The Hunter’s lips flatten, skeptical, but Kurapika nods curtly. 

“Well, now that you’ve seen that there is nothing interesting to see here,” Kurapika tells him, “I suppose that you can leave now.” His eyes sweep over the piles of blood and torn limbs. “Thank you for helping,” he admits reluctantly, “although you  _ did  _ make quite the mess.”

“Right,” Kuroro agrees. “Sorry about that,” he says, unapologetic. Nevertheless, there’s a deep-seated urge to please Kurapika, to lessen that crease of worry between his brows, and so Kuroro opens his Skill Hunter book. Oh, the things he is willing to do for this man because of the nen wrapping around his heart.

Kurapika tenses, arm flying out to shield the Queen. “What are you doing?”

Kuroro just hums in response, bending down to pick up a dripping mass of  _ something _ —intestine, maybe?—and shoving it into the recesses of his  _ Fun Fun Cloth _ . “Cleaning up the mess.”  _ If only Shizuku were here.  _ Certainly, her vacuum could be put to good use, but Kuroro is pushing thirty so the least he can do is act like the adult he is and clean up after his fun. 

“I can see that… ” Kurapika replies, sounding strained. He’s watching him with the most curious expression on his face—a mix between constipated and confused that Kuroro finds highly amusing. “... but—”

The unspoken question of  _ why?  _ hangs heavily in the air. 

He meets Kurapika’s stare, expression innocent as his fingers shine with gore. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll come in handy” —he waves one of the severed hands to emphasize his point— “later.” He’s gratified when the Queen lets out a choked echo of a laugh at his joke. The blond just rolls his eyes. 

Once Kuroro has stowed away the last of the grisly bits, Kurapika grants him a shadow of a smile for professionality’s sake. 

“Thank you.  _ Now,  _ you can leave,” he says, threat clear.  _ Get out before I take you out.  _

Kuroro shakes excess blood off of his hands. “Not yet, Kurapika.” He glances quickly at the Queen, who is watching the two of them with a bemused look on her face. “If I could steal you for the briefest of moments for a quick chat in the hallway, that would be wonderful.” 

Kurapika’s face goes terribly blank and Kuroro  _ knows  _ that he would rather die than comply with his request. 

“Consider it thanks,” he tells him. “Common courtesy for the man who just saved your lives.” Oito shifts nervously from behind Kurapika. The blond’s jaw tightens, hands flexing by his sides. 

What would be worse than dying? Owing Kuroro, of course. 

Kurapika gives him a curt nod, movements forced as he stalks forward. “Bill,” he intones. A rather plain man whom Kuroro had only vaguely acknowledged as present in the room approaches the Queen and leads her out of the room. Pleased, the Spider takes out a spare handkerchief from his suit pocket and wipes off his hands. 

And then Kurapika is in front of him, just an arm’s length away, and Kuroro can’t resist the urge to reach out and touch. His hand finds Kurapika’s elbow in a mockery of gentlemanly manners as he guides him out of the room. As soon as they’re alone, Kurapika wrenches himself from his grasp, rounding on him. 

“What do you want? I’d rather not leave my charges for longer than I have to, especially in light of the recent events,” Kurapika snaps out, folding his arms in front of his chest. 

Truthfully, Kuroro had just acted on the irrational need to have Kurapika alone with him, but he has a feeling that that explanation won’t go over well with the other man. “Have you made any progress in finding our clown yet?”

“No,” Kurapika answers testily. “I’ve been a bit…  _ preoccupied  _ with keeping the Queen and her daughter alive, if you couldn’t tell.” Then, he catches himself, the venom retreating from his voice. “It’s not as if I can just give Hisoka a call and find him that way.”

“How do you plan to locate him, then?”

For a moment, Kuroro is sure that Kurapika isn’t going to tell him. Then the Hunter pushes his tongue between his teeth and holds out his right hand. A thin chain drops from his ring finger, pulled downward by a circular charm attached to the bottom. 

“I know how your power works, Lucilfer,” Kurapika says icily. “I won’t bother explaining how this technique works lest you rob me of it—”

“Your nen probably wouldn’t be of much use to me, since it’s tied so closely with your… condition,” Kuroro mutters to himself. Kurapika pretends not to hear him. 

“—but with this ability I can determine Hisoka’s location,” he informs him. “There’s a map in my cabin that I will need—”

A wave of something passes over the blond’s face and Kurapika’s frown deepens. 

“—oh,  _ fuck, _ ” Kurapika curses. “Fuck. I thought I had more time.”

Before Kuroro can ask what he means, Kurapika’s nen shuts off and the man stumbles back, bracing a hand against the wall behind him. Surprised, Kuroro darts forward, stopping short only when Kurapika shoves him back. 

“I’m  _ fine, _ ” Kurapika growls. After a beat, he rights himself, still leaning heavily against the wall. “I’m fine,” he says again, although he looks far from it. Perspiration beads at his forehead, glistening against his pallor. Kuroro presses closer. 

Before Kurapika can react, he presses a hand to the Kurta’s forehead. The man’s slightly warm, the precursor to a fever.  _ Well, that’s not good.  _

“You’re exhausted,” the Spider observes, voice coming out more gentle than he would have liked. Kurapika pushes off his hand. 

“Astute observation,” he quips, but he doesn’t deny it. He looks up at Kuroro, setting his jaw. “I can still do it if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Kuroro just hums thoughtfully. His eyes sweep over the bags under Kurapika’s eyes, the exhaustion reddening the rims of the other’s lower lashes. “Don’t bother, Kurapika.” He steps away because he’s afraid that he’ll do something stupid if he stays so close. “Get some rest. I’ll find you tomorrow morning.” Kurapika scoffs wearily. 

“I don’t want to owe you.”

“You owe me nothing,” Kuroro tells him firmly. And it’s true. He’s taken far too much from Kurapika for the man to be concerned about owing him anything. 

But Kurapika is still eying him suspiciously so Kuroro adds, “You’re of no use to me when you’re in this state.” He injects some coldness into his tone to make his excuse more believable. Fortunately, the blond takes his explanation at face value, not bothering to read too closely into his previous concern. 

“Tomorrow morning,” Kurapika confirms before walking away. 

“It’s a date,” Kuroro says softly to himself.

* * *

He’s about to leave the suite when a voice stops him. 

“Who are you really?” 

Kuroro turns, a slow, charismatic smile sliding over his features with practiced ease. “What a question to ask, your highness.”

“It’s Oito, please,” the woman corrects him. Her tone brokers no argument. She’s intimidating, Kuroro realizes. Despite her slight stature and youthful face, there’s a bite to her that sets Kuroro’s teeth on edge. She reminds him of  _ her.  _

He can see her in the way that Oito moves, hard-earned confidence in every step, and even though the Queen’s hair is long and dark, not blond and short, and her clothes are loose and billowing, not the tight wine-red that Paku had always preferred, his malfunctioning heart clenches. 

“Oito,” he repeats. “I must thank you—the whole ‘your highness’ thing is quite a mouthful.” 

“Small mercies,” she tells him thinly. “Now that I’ve told you my name” — _ I already knew it,  _ Kuroro thinks to himself— “you should tell me yours. ‘Common courtesy’, if you will.”

Kuroro’s lips twitch upward. Now he knows why Kurapika likes the woman so much. Oito eyes him curiously. 

“There have always been rumors from home,” she begins, once it’s clear that Kuroro isn’t going to speak, “about the Phantom Troupe. A band of thieves, headed by a man that comes from the western slums.” She purses her lips. “ _ Chrollo,  _ the ‘king of thieves’,” she recites. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

Perhaps he’s being overly-sentimental, but Kuroro obliges her curiosity. “Yes.”

Oito’s expression tightens, more out of apprehension than fear. 

“Don’t worry,” Kuroro informs her, “I’m no threat to you or your daughter.” Oito raises her chin, a regal air about her that Kuroro can’t help but admire. The role of Queen suits her, he notes. 

“Because of him.”

Kuroro’s sigh hisses through his teeth. “Because of him,” he confirms, words light despite the crushing heaviness that accompanies them. 

Oito looks all-too knowing, then, a faint smile gracing her features. “You love him, don’t you?”

Alarm blares in Kuroro’s head, bidding him to beat a hasty retreat and  _ leave,  _ before he spills any more secrets to this woman. The Spider just raises a single brow at her. “And why do you say that?”

Oito folds her hands behind her back, leaning back on the balls of her feet. “The way you look at him. Like he is something you desperately want but know you can never have—”

Kuroro opens his mouth to protest but Oito doesn’t give him an opportunity. 

“—and the way that you cannot stop yourself from touching him. I assume that love is foreign to you and that is why you hide it so poorly.”

“Maybe I do,” he admits, “ _ but it wasn’t my choice. _ ” Oito’s eyes find his. 

“Is it ever anyone’s?”

She has him cornered, trapped by her accusations and carefully-worded truths. All because Kuroro is a love-struck fool who can’t seem to shut up about his useless feelings. 

_ Go,  _ the rational part of his brain urges.  _ Leave while you can. Kill her if you must, but  _ leave. 

Perhaps the old Kuroro, the one not stricken by nen and unspoiled by love, would have. He would have snapped her slender neck, neat and efficient, before vanishing. _ Leave no loose ends _ , he used to command his subordinates. 

Instead, Kuroro just swallows and says, “He’d kill me if he knew.” He lets his voice waver just a tad, lets his hands shake by his sides, so that he is the picture of the scorned suitor, heartbroken and desperate. 

Kuroro hates playing the pity card, but he’s certain that it’s to his best advantage with the Queen. She’s a romantic, that much Kuroro can assume. All children of Meteor City start off that way—dreaming of grandeur and freedom. He guesses that her marriage to the Kakin emperor had been a manifestation of that naive, childhood romanticism—a misguided attempt at achieving that fairy-tale dream. 

Well, if he must act the role of the jilted lover in order to earn her silence, then act he will. 

“I gathered as much, Chrollo. Your secret is safe with me,” she tells him conspiratorially. 

“You have my gratitude,” he says kindly, even as he seethes and boils under his skin because she, in only a few scant minutes, has confirmed all of his fears. 

“On one condition,” Oito warns, holding a finger up at him admonishingly. 

Kuroro’s nails dig into his palms, drawing blood. “Of course.” What will it be? Protection? A kill? Surely, the Queen has a list of princes that she needs dead to ensure her daughter’s claim on the throne. 

It’s none of these things. “Don’t hurt him,” she requests sofly. 

_ I don’t think I could even if I wanted to,  _ Kuroro wants to say. “I’ll try,” he promises instead. Oito nods, appeased. Seizing the chance, Kuroro summons his Skill Hunter. As calmly as he can, he turns to the correct page and vanishes. 

Because,  _ fuck,  _ he really should have just stayed in his cabin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! it's me, your resident trash-monger, here to deliver you my kurokura garbage! please let me know what you thought of this chapter/this story as a whole :) 
> 
> thank you so so much for reading / leaving kudos / commenting + i hope you and your loved ones are staying safe!
> 
> \- unreadable0
> 
> P.S. i uh totally didn't reread any of this to edit so i'm so sorry
> 
> Added Notes
> 
> 1\. the reason why kurapika is so exhausted in this chapter is because he still hasn't fully recuperated from the whole fainting episode. So expending even a small amount of his aura capacity in defending Queen Oito and Woble severely taxed him.
> 
> 2\. kuroro's battle with his feelings is honestly so fun to write! his suffering will only get worse before it gets better, tbh
> 
> 3\. honestly i DID NOT plan on kuroro and oito's conversation to go on that long at ALL but it happened so here ya go
> 
> 4\. the jokes in here are such low hanging fruit i'm dead :( i would've taken them out but i'm embarrassed to say that i got attached to them (my puns are my ugly babies don't judge) and had written dialogue around them already so oops. 
> 
> 5\. i have most of this story planned out already--the only chapter that is a little iffy is the next one, which is probably going to be filler and some more pining on kuroro's part. 
> 
> Updating Schedule:  
> (i will try to stick to this loose plan, but some fics may updating later or earlier than these dates)  
> \- End of May / Early June: The Sun Also Rises chapter 14  
> \- Early June: sugar chapter 3  
> \- Early June: i'll be the salt for your wounds chapter 3  
> \- Mid-June: At an Arm's Length chapter 6  
> \- Late-June: Help not Wanted chapter 16 (finally!)
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> posthumous forgiveness by tame impala  
> devil's den by deelyle
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr @unreadable0 (i will be posting some v fun scenes that are coming up in this fic!)


	3. i'm black and blue from what you do to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hisoka is found. kurapika catches on.

True to his word, Kurapika is there to open the door for him when he appears in front of the Thirteenth Prince’s chambers. Kuroro still isn’t entirely sure how the other man knew to expect him; they hadn’t set up an agreed time and Kuroro had chosen 7am intentionally to catch Kurapika off balance, but alas, none of his plans have been working out anyway.

“You’re early,” is all that Kurapika says to him, voice clipped. 

“Of course, my dear,” Kuroro replies, stopping the door as it tries forcefully to swing shut in front of him. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

The Kurta scoffs. “We’ll do it in my chambers. The Queen and her daughter are still asleep and I prefer they weren’t disturbed.” There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, but Kuroro holds his tongue. 

_ Choose your battles carefully,  _ he reminds himself. So the Spider just follows Kurapika as he leads him through a narrow corridor and into what Kuroro assumes is the servant’s quarters. 

“In here,” Kurapika grunts, sliding open one of the cabin doors. “Don’t touch anything.” 

Kurapika’s cabin is exactly as Kuroro expected it to be. It’s clean and awfully bland--the furnishings are sparse in the little room. A small bunk is pressed to one wall with a thin mattress on top of it. The sheets, thin and cheap, are tucked neatly into the sides. There’s a set of drawers nailed into the wall next to the bed, and Kurapika has stacked a few books on top of it. A photograph, worn and slightly-faded, is hastily shoved between one of the book’s pages, as if Kurapika had spent time looking at it before frantically trying to hide it away. Kuroro has the irrational urge to see what the photograph is of. A past lover, perhaps?

Kuroro wonders if Kurapika lives like this normally. He wonders if the man spends his days sleeping in hotel beds, crisp linen pillowcases pressed against his cheek and suitcase packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Always going, going. Kuroro wonders if Kurapika has ever  _ settled.  _ He wonders if he ever will. Kuroro tries not to think too hard about his dream, which sticks sugar-sweet at the back of his throat. 

“You’re awfully quiet,” Kurapika comments idly as he crosses across the room and shuffles through some of the papers in one of the drawers. Kuroro jerks out of his musings. He grins. 

“Would you rather I talk?” 

The man doesn’t even spare him a glance. “I was going to say that I prefer you this way--silent. That way I can pretend you don’t exist.”

Kuroro just laughs. So much sting, this one. “You flatter me so.” Kurapika’s scowl deepens before his fingers find what he has been looking for and he gives a sharp yank. 

“Got it,” Kurapika mutters under his breath, retrieving a map. He spreads it over the bed and Kuroro hazards a few steps toward him. “Bring me the lamp,” Kurapika commands, tone brokering no argument. Kuroro hands it to him, looking over him at the paper. 

“This isn’t standard-issue,” he notes.

“It isn’t,” Kurapika agrees, but says nothing more. 

Undeterred, Kuroro presses closer. “Where did you get it?” For a few moments, he’s sure that Kurapika will just ignore him, but then the man just sighs, sitting back on his heels. 

“The Association had a few floating around, so I borrowed one.”

Kuroro tilts his head to one side. “ _ Stole  _ one,” he corrects. Kurapika turns to look at him, irritated. 

“ _ Borrowed _ ,” he repeats. “Unlike you, Lucilfer, I don’t see the need to take whatever I want and never give it back.”

_ Oh, but you do.  _

There are many things that Kuroro can say to that, many ways to viciously tear apart the man before him, but Kuroro just hums and lets him have the last word. What Kurapika is offering him is priceless—it wouldn’t do to provoke him now. Plus, Kuroro has never enjoyed being cruel to the ones he loves. This love, this sick, artificial love, is no different. 

Kurapika reaches into the drawer again and pulls out a small folder. Kuroro cranes his neck to see its contents. 

“Photographs?” he questions. Kurapika selects one of them, setting it carefully on the bed next to the map. It’s of Hisoka--one of the glossy, airbrushed headshots that they sell at the Heaven’s Arena gift shop.  _ Floor Master Hisoka Morrow,  _ is printed on the bottom left corner in a flowing, neon font. “I didn’t know you were a fan,” he comments mildly. 

“I’m not,” Kurapika tells him flatly. “But tacky images like these are the easiest ones that I can get my hands on.” The Kurta doesn’t explain further but Kuroro assumes that he must need photographs to work his ability. Perhaps to give his nen a better visual? He is a conjurer, after all. 

“So do you have one of me, then?” Kurapika’s fingers twitch. “Or am I just too difficult of a person to keep tabs on?”

“Has it ever occured to you that you simply aren’t worth my time?” 

The remark would have stung if Kurapika hadn’t been lying. Kuroro quirks a brow at the other’s defensiveness. “No,” he replies. “I believe that I  _ am. _ ” Kurapika’s lips tighten. 

“You’re a hard man to find actual documentation of,” he says finally, tone carefully blank. 

Kuroro makes a surprised sound. “So that’s a yes.” How strange. Kuroro is ever so careful to make sure that no photos of him or any of his subordinates--minus Hisoka, of course, but he was never  _ really  _ a subordinate--are ever readily available to the public. “How did you find one?”

The blond holds his hand out, letting his chains melt into existence. “I’d rather not betray my sources, Lucilfer,” he responds. For the first time, there’s no open hostility in his voice. Instead there’s--Kuroro is hesitant to place it--an element of dry humor to his words. How curious.

Kuroro is tempted to press further, but he’s enjoying this odd mood that is settling between them. Instead, he makes him comfortable hovering over Kurapika’s shoulder. 

Once the blond is finished fussing over the positioning of the photographs and the map, he summons his chains. The same slender chain from earlier drops down from his ring finger, tongues of nen licking up its length. Slowly, Kurapika guides it around the map, brow furrowed in concentration. 

_ Ah, so it’s a dowsing technique, then.  _ “Interesting,” Kuroro murmurs, leaning forward. 

“Quiet,” Kurapika orders, one hand forcing him back. “I need silence.” 

And so Kuroro sits back and watches him work, movements practiced and with a kind of inherent elegance to them that is so entrancing. It’s something that Kuroro has never observed before--this natural grace before him. Kurapika possesses this fluidity to his actions that cannot be taught. Kuroro has been the presence of well-trained courtesans, of high-born nobles and gem-encrusted princesses, but none of them could ever come close to this innate  _ ease.  _ They always slip up in their act somewhere, caught off-guard, but Kurapika doesn’t. Kurapika doesn’t because what he has is not an act, surely. The Kurta has no pretenses up around him. He has no reason to show off, to pretend, in front of Kuroro, a man that Kurapika regards with the same disgust as one would dog shit on the sole of his shoe. His poise is so unforced, so natural--it’s refreshing. 

There’s a certain brand of people that Kuroro is used to associating with. Rich, snobbish types, with artificial faces and artificial geniality. Wolves in sheep’s clothing. Predators hiding underneath soft, pampered flesh. It’s always disappointing, really, when Kuroro tears them apart and they are no less ugly on the inside. 

But Kurapika… Kurapika is different. 

There’s a simplicity to him that Kuroro can’t help but admire. There’s a monster and a man, yes, dwelling within him, but unlike the others, who wear masks to hide one or the other, Kurapika doesn’t bother with pretenses. When he acts as a monster, he looks the part--sharp teeth and bleeding eyes, violence reading in every thread of muscle. And when he acts as a man… well, Kuroro cannot decide which he finds more fascinating. 

Kurapika’s eyelashes catch in the weak light of the desk lamp, long and golden. The soft glow paints the man’s skin and hair with the same luxurious luster--the color of sweet honey, thick with sugar and sun and warmth. Kuroro’s mouth waters. He wants so badly to bridge that distance between them, to feel the yield of his skin under his fingertips. How would he taste? How would he sound, writhing underneath him as Kuroro burns promises into the back of his knee, the curve of his hip? Kuroro imagines that Kurapika would taste divine, like the delicate nectar that clings to the stem of a honeysuckle--a fleeting sweetness that leaves you wanting more. That makes you uproot entire forests in search of  _ just one more drop _ \--

“Shut up,” Kurapika hisses. Kuroro frowns. 

“I wasn’t talking.” The other man gives him a cursory glance from the corner of his eyes. 

“Your heart,” he informs him, cross, “is inconceivably loud.”

_ Well, fuck.  _ It seems that Kuroro greatly underestimated the power of nen-enhanced hearing. “Apologies,” he says sarcastically. “I’ll try my best to make sure it stops.”  _ It’s your fault, anyway.  _ His fists clench.  _ You did this to me.  _

“What are you, afraid?” Kurapika asks, a baiting edge to his tone. 

“Terrified,” Kuroro answers honestly.  _ Absolutely fucking terrified of what you’re doing to me.  _ Kurapika falls silent, obviously not expecting Kuroro to speak so candidly. Feeling an odd sort of satisfaction, Kuroro redirects his attention to the map. 

The dowsing chain remains unmoved as Kurapika goes through the entirety of the third deck and halfway through the second. For a second, Kuroro considers that perhaps he has made some sort of grave miscalculation, that maybe that clown isn’t on the boat at all and has just sent him on a wild goose chase. But then Kurapika moves his hand and the chain starts to sway, chiming back and forth with the orderly rhythm of a clock. “Found you,” Kurapika mutters. Kuroro follows where the little dowsing charm has stopped, hovering over one of the 2nd-deck engine rooms. 

“Ah,” Kuroro remarks softly. “I suppose you were right, then.” Indeed, it makes sense that Hisoka would avoid the uppermost deck. 

Kurapika doesn’t bother saying  _ ‘I told you so,’  _ but the smug smile that flashes over his features is close enough. 

“The engine rooms require high-security clearance to enter,” Kurapika remarks, half to himself. “How--?”

“He’s probably disguised,” Kuroro supplies. “Hisoka isn’t one for being discreet, but having access to restricted areas would give him the advantage of having privacy as he executes his schemes.” 

“A stowaway rat aboard a ship of fine grain, then,” Kurapika comments. 

“Hm.” The blond looks exquisite in the low lamp light. A sharp tugging deep in Kuroro’s stomach urges him to draw closer, to lay a hand on that angular jaw. 

“I’ll go meet him now, as we planned,” Kurapika offers, oblivious to the other’s preoccupation. 

“Just don’t kill him,” Kuroro requests blithely, still watching how the shadows on the Kurta’s throat thicken and twist as he turns to face him. “Save the fun part for me, dear.”

“When you put it like  _ that _ ,” Kurapika drawls, maneuvering around him to exit the cabin’s close quarters, “it makes me want to save you the pleasure and take care of him myself.” It takes a precious moment for the other’s words to register. Kuroro’s head swims with the decadent smell of Kurapika’s cologne.  _ God,  _ Kuroro wants to push against him, press his nose to the man’s neck and breathe in the source of it. Unconsciously, he trails after the blond. 

“Now, then you wouldn’t be playing by the rules,” Kuroro reminds him, the threat coming out softer than he would have liked. Kurapika stops and glances back at him. The hunter doesn’t shy away when Kuroro steps close--too close. 

“And since when did you honor the rules,  _ Kuroro _ ?” Kurapika wields his name like a weapon, his teasing tone sinking deep into Kuroro’s chest. 

If he were a more naive man, Kuroro would say that the other man was  _ flirting  _ with him. But Kuroro is not. He has been in the business of manipulation and deceit for too long to be fooled now, regardless of how good an actor Kurapika is. Kuroro recognizes a trap when he sees one, and that is what Kurapika’s words are. 

Of course, Kuroro was not so stupid to think that Kurapika wouldn’t catch on to his odd behavior. But still, he is surprised that the man has caught on so quickly. Certainly, Kurapika doesn’t know the half of it, the torture that Kuroro is going through, but he suspects. Kurapika’s trying to gauge his reactions, trying to pick him apart. 

That fact shouldn’t make Kuroro’s heart beat faster, but it does. 

_ Clever man,  _ he thinks fondly. 

“Careful,” he intones, tilting his head to one side. “Bark up too many wrong trees and you might just find yourself speared by one.” Kurapika has the nerve to laugh. 

“No, no,” he replies, “I think I’ve got the right one here.”

“Oh? And what tree is that?” There’s a real sense of danger in Kuroro’s voice, now, but Kurapika doesn’t flinch. 

“Defensive, are we?” Kurapika observes. He tilts his chin up defiantly. Kuroro’s eyes flick from the Kurta’s eyes down to his lips and then back up again. Kurapika tracks this movement. “You know, that’s one thing you have in common with Hisoka,” he remarks lowly. 

“And what is that?” 

“I can never tell if you want to kill me, or… ” Kurapika trails off, tone going flat. Kuroro wants to move closer, pulled to the other man like ocean waves are to the shore. 

“Or?” Kuroro’s hands itch to burrow into Kurapika’s hair, to tug the other’s lithe frame flush against him. 

Kurapika says nothing, but the thunderous look in his eyes says it all. 

_ ‘Or if you want to fuck me,’  _ passes silently between them. 

Kurapika’s expression is murderous, burning with disgust at the implication, and yet his pulse races, heavy and quick. How intriguing. Arousal of all things stirs in Kuroro’s gut. 

“Well.” The Spider steps away from Kurapika, summoning his Skill Hunter. “Happy hunting,” he bids. Then the world bends and contorts around him, yanking him away from Kurapika and his fire and dumping Kuroro back into the damp cold of his cabin. 

Kuroro drags a hand over his face. He feels hot, stretched taut within his skin. The discomfort he feels is only matched by the frantic pounding of his heart. 

_ This is really no good,  _ he thinks to himself. 

He needs relief. Whether it be by piercing Kurapika with his blade or with his--

_ Well.  _

It doesn’t matter. 

Kuroro just needs this to stop, and soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! it's been quite a while since i last updated an hxh fic! thank you guys so much for all the love on this fic and your infinite patience for an update on it! this one was a bit of filler because next chapter is when the rubber REALLY hits the road. kuroro/kurapika are my comfort characters, so be sure to expect another update either later this month of early next year. if you have any questions about updates/this chapter +future plotpoints, feel free to comment. i love hearing your feedback!
> 
> lots of love,  
> unreadable0
> 
> added notes:
> 
> 1\. kurapika suspects that kuroro is acting more weird because it's another ploy to manipulate him. i don't think he'll like the ACTUAL reason any better.
> 
> 2\. also peep that last part--kurapika's MIND may be repulsed by kuroro... but mm he's kind of into it. maybe

**Author's Note:**

> and that's it! came up with this idea when my recent dosage increase kept me awake all night earlier this week and i got really excited about it. please let me know your thoughts about this tentative AU as well as any ideas you'd like to see incorporated into this fic, because i have absolutely zero clue where i'm going with this haha. comments are the fuel that get my butt writing again so don't be afraid to ask some question about what is happening in this chapter too! thanks for reading and i hope everyone is well :)
> 
> added notes:
> 
> 1\. basically the reason i wrote this is because i had an epiphany and realized that i always write kuroro as a nice, watered-down, nice-boy version of himself who is mostly sane and a soft, caring person at his core. haHA not this time. i decided to settle for a darker version of the kurokura dynamic in this one for a nice change of pace--hopefully it seems more realistic and true to canon than my other portrayals.
> 
> 2\. my knowledge of nen is rusty and has many holes in it, but i rewatched the Greed Island arc to study up so hopefully my explanation of Abengane's ability is sorta feasible. 
> 
> 3\. if this au seems very similar to the Help Not Wanted one, it's because it totally is. It's just, like, written in a more long-winded format and is hopefully more true to the toxicity of Kuroro and Kurapika's characters. 
> 
> friendly scream at me on tumblr @unreadable0 :)


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